The writing's on the wall

She cannot tell me how it was
When first she met my father.
I'm looking for some answers
But she can hardly now remember.

Idly sitting, staring vacant
Gnarly fingers clutching beads.
Today she calls me by my name:
A short-lived lucid moment.

Dementia has slowly effaced her
Eroding all her hard layers.
Completely stripped bare, a nobody,
And only now can I stand her company.

I imagine she saw him in me:
My dark moods, my fire and rebellion
So contrary to her hostile temerity
That shushed me and dampened me for fear of fear.

Greedily, hungrily, my mind stored up
Any fragment of him carelessly uttered.
Mapping out his life in colonial fashion,
A cartographer, meeting my own ends.

Thus, he emerged, as I wanted him:
My bold, brave, heroic father.
Traces of him in my literary heros:
But more exotic, god-like...distant?

Never blamed him for his absence.
Only longed to know who I came from.
I'm my father's son, as I'm nothing like her,
Whom I've only ever blamed for her presence.

Ten Umbrellas.

I plod along. All the other kids around laughing, what's funny? I'm concentrating on the lines. The lines and the cars. Cannot step on the lines, and need to count the cars. Not parked cars, but cars in motion. So far no yellow, no green, no white, only one red, three blue, six black and fourteen grey. Grey always comes out on top, I don't know why. Red is the best colour. Clever people should know that. The Red Planet, Mars looks red because of the iron oxide there, plus there's the great red spot in Jupiter. It's the colour of blood, warns of danger and people say the colour of love, which apparently is a profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person. There's two more silver cars zipped by. The first is definately going over the 30km limit, but I didn't manage to catch the reg of that one.
'Careful now, Conall. Keep walking'. Anne's hand shunts me along. Some of the other kids have passed us out. One yellow and another black.
'We're nearly there now. You're doing great!' I could have got the reg of the first car, if only that second one didn't follow so soon behind. I step on the road to avoid a network of lines on the path.
There's the gallery, in front. I was there once before to see an exhibition called 'Wheels of Motion'. There was an installation that used water to move a wheel, that moved pebbles that went back to start the water flowing. It was obvious that the pebbles were too small, and were stilting the movement. I was just fixing it, but Dad dragged me off, apologizing.
'Why are you sorry?' I asked.
He shook his head and didn't tell me why. I still don't know what the problem was.

The building is good. Corinthian columns, but not original. The first documented was the Choragic Monument of Lysicrates in Athens, erected in 334 BC, but this is a pretty good copy.
Thirty four steps to the door, that means fifty one for me. Left, right-left, right, left-right...
'Come on now, Conall. Try to walk properly'. Anne's hand firmly takes my wrist, and tries to make me go to her pace.
'No!', I think, but don't say it.
I plant both feet on step 13, pull my arm away and fold my arms. I look up and notice all the kids are already gone in.
'Nnnnnneeeeeaaaaa'. I block my ears with the heels of my hands, but the noise is just as loud! I look up and see it overhead. I jump down, wrap myself up small, ears still covered. I pull my hood tightly over my head.
I see Anne's foot just beside me.
'Ah, Conall, come on now, it's only a plane. We talked about this.'
She crouches down close to me. I pull away, start rocking.
'Don't worry, Conall, I'm not going to touch you.'
A pair of footsteps pass by, black pointy business shoes and clip clop high-heeled boots.
'Count to ten slowly, take deep breaths, just like we practiced'.
Don't like the number ten. Instead I breathe in and out for seven seconds each. Big blowey breaths, like Mummy practicing her yoga.

We are late for the guided tour but that's fine by me. I prefer to just look at the pictures anyway.
'Oh, we've missed the tour, what a pity'.
'Is it a pity?'
I walk off away from the noise. I look in the door of one big room.
'Oh, lovely! The Impressionists', comes Annes voice right beside me.
I scan the pictures quickly. All fuzzy and mute, like a photo not in focus. I keep walking.
'Oh Conall, wait. Look at them properly. Here, can you see the church?' Anne is clutching my wrist, so I shake her off.
'Ya'.
I look for about thirty seconds to keep Anne happy. I edge away, Anne following closely, and I go through a glass door. It's quieter here, darker too.
This exhibition is called Fifty Shades. They are mistaken though, there's way more than fifty shades. And technically a tint is the mixture of a color with white, which increases lightness, and a shade is the mixture of a color with black, which reduces lightness. So looking at most of the pictures in this room, it's more about tints than shades.
'It shouldn't be called Fifty Shades you know'. I start to explain this to Anne, but she just gives a half smile, half grimace.
'Ah don't worry about it Conall'.
'I'm not worried about it. I was just saying...'

Later, back at school, we have to prepare a report about what we saw at the gallery. Ms. Newman is asking us all about the pictures we saw.
'I want you to really look at what the artist is trying to say, what message are they giving in their painting'.
I'm working out some tricky maths problems. But I am listening a bit too. 'Keeping my ears open', as Anne says, though I really can't imagine shutting them, locking them up with a key.
'So what drew your attention, Conall?'
'The name of it was Rainy Day at my university by Maja Wronska'.
'Lovely! And what was it in this picture you liked?'
'I didn't say I liked it'. I shake my head.
'Well...what was it that drew your attention, then?'
'There were ten umbrellas. Ten is bad but the tessalating tiles were good. So that cancels itself out. But umbrellas give shade too. The exhibition was 'Fifty Shades', So Anne thinks the artist might be having a bit of a joke. Ha ha!'
'Ah...well, thank you Conall. That is indeed...interesting. I will look forward to reading more in your report'.
Anne is beside me, cutting out stuff. She winks at me. I get back to my tricky problems.

Autumn Leaves

"...the courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference"
The voices wash over me, surround me and wrap me up in their cosy warmth. I want to hold onto this moment, this togetherness. Nightlights burn gently all around and on the sacred space, a child rests peacefully on the palm of a big, open hand. Autumn leaves are scattered randomly here, their warm colours lulling us into the cold sparseness of winter.
At tonight's meeting, we each choose a leaf. From the pile strewn on the carpet, this might take some time; but in fact everyone seems to know, with deciciveness and resolve 'their' leaf. Holding this leaf as we recount the past week to ourselves and each other, we come to know it intimately. I hold a sycamore leaf, yellow and soft, a piece missing from one of its palmate tips. It has brown spots, like liver marks and thin delicate veins, only just perceptible to the touch. It is light, and later, with my eyes closed, I struggle to even feel it as it lays flat upon my open palm.
As I recall my moments of hurt, anger, humiliation, rage, self-pity, loathing and cowardice over the past week, I bring myself back to the moment. Around me, in the circle, all these other people, whom I admire, respect and have come to deeply trust, are doing just the same. As I recall my fractured past, the suffering I caused, my numerous falls from grace...'oh God, will it ever leave me?!', I bring myself back to the moment. Around me, in the circle, my friends are doing just the same.
I look at my leaf: broken, delicate, laid bare. Suddenly I feel like crying at its heart-breaking beauty. A sense of hope engulfs me...acceptance.
In a symbolic gesture, we are encouraged to drop our leaves to the floor, like the tree preparing for new life. Somehow, I cannot let go.
The tree with unwavering faith, is constantly renewed. I know, the moment I leave, I will live out another week, in the same predictable manner like last week, and before and on...
As the meeting draws to a close, I feel soft and free; safe although I'm exposed. I see that like the tree, with leaves of different colours, shapes and sizes, I have all these components...bad and good. It's what makes me who I am. But unlike the tree, I can't seem to let go.
I walk out into the dusky autumn evening, wrap my scarf about me protectively, and crunch along the leafy path towards the gate. Leaves trickle down like autumn tears. Before I go back out into the world, I pick up an old, crumpled leaf. Holding it softly by its stem, I whisper the prayer to myself: "Grant me the courage to change the things I can", and I leave it fall softly to the ground.

Grace

Music awakens
My sleeping soul. Falling tears:
Pulse of the spirit.

Two Fallen Stars

She downed the brandy in one neat gulp, and immediately felt its effects course through her body, making her warm, tingly and a little more alive. She continued to stare ahead of her like a zombie, aware of all the concerned expressions gazing upon her, hands awkward on laps, wanting to reach out, but helpless.
'Another?', came the low voice of Mark beside her, already pouring another measure with grave concentration.
She left him awkwardly holding the glass beside her, too lost in her own world to acknowledge him.
'Go on, Ellie, a little drop won't hurt' came her mother's voice, for once condoning drink.
She took the drink proffered by Mark, and glaring hatefully at her mother, took the glass and placed it firmly on the table beside her.
'I need a walk', she mumbled to no-one in particular.
She moved to leave, to get out of this hot, badly air-conditioned room, to escape into the open, to be alone, and as she stood up, struggling with the folded layers of taffeta skirt, she was met with the opposing, authoritative voice of her father.
'Ellie, where are you going? Sit down, you're in no fit state to be walking around by yourself'.
Feeling winded, more by her automatic childish submission than by the scolding tone of the demand, she found herself as she was for the past hour or more, slunk unmoving in her chair. Music floated up from the bar downstairs and bizarrely from the back of the room, she could hear the tap-tap-tap of deft fingers sending a text message. 'No doubt filling them all in at home of the scandal', she thought scornfully.
She snatched up the heavy glass, and with an angry 'For you, mother', swallowed the shot back. Carelessly putting the glass back on the table, it teetered on the edge and dropped over, landing heavily on the wooden dance floor. Mark quickly picked it up, unbroken, but now bearing a thick, dark crack down its middle.
He turned to her father with a let-me-handle-this expression, and taking Ellie gently by the elbow said,
'Come with me, we'll get some air'.
A sea of eyes followed them as they left, and as soon as they were out the door, Ellie could hear the urgent whispers, the sibilant gushing forth. like waves, building, building, then breaking on rocks.

Once outside the door of the hotel, she took one of the lanterns from the outdoor seating area, where a few bemused guests lounged. She really didn't care how she must look. Of course they would assume that Mark was her new husband and already on their wedding day, subject to a 'lovers tiff'.
She strided across the road towards the sea, two paces at least ahead of Mark. Her heels sunk into the sand, and not wanting to be slowed up, she slipped out of her shoes, their diamonte bows winking up at her like fallen stars.
Once she reached the water's edge, she stopped short, the rough waves breaking at her ankles, making the dress heavy and plundersome. The shock of the cold water hit her like a slap, and the tears gushed forth. Bawling loudly, she backed away from the edge of the water. The heavy clouds seemed to bear down on her and she fell to the ground, burying her head in her knees, layers of skirt forming a circle around her.
Mark stood a little distance behind her. He let her cry, her shoulders jerking up and down. Whatever he might say could not fix things.

After what seemed like an age, Ellie pulled herself to her feet, and red, wet and shivering, she stumbled back to where he stood. Gently he put his jacket over her shoulders, and she pulled it tightly around her. Her expression was hard to read, probably a mixture of anger and hurt. She just looked dazed and exhausted, as if awoken from a strange dream.
Slowly they trudged back towards the hotel, step-for-step in silence. Their wide, blurry shadows spread along the sand as they moved. In the distance, the sparkle of two fallen stars grew dimmer until they could no longer be seen.

What isn't said

'A few pints. A few friggin' pints...and on my birthday weekend. Jesus Christ!' He shook his head, affronted, as a child who is the target of a teacher's constant reprimands. His hands. which were aggressively held out as if to show what was perfectly obvious, dropped lifelessly between his legs, set widely apart on the small park bench. He sighed heavily and slumped further into the bench. She looked away, breathing deeply through her nostrils. She was angry. The anger was just under the surface, and there it would remain.

An old couple passed slowly by huddled tightly together, she linking his left arm. Apart from that the park was isolated.

She noticed his knee start to bounce up and down, an involuntary spasmic-like motion that usually suggests his anxiety over something. She recognises things like this. She ignored it, continuing to look away.

'I think you're being unfair, Clau. I mean...am I not allowed to have friends?'

She edged further away, leaning slightly over the arm of the bench.

'I know you're stressed out lately...what can I do to help?' He turned to face her.
She blinked slowly, wondering how she was back here again. Was it her? Was she being too harsh?
How could he help? Did she need to be helped? Could her feelings be solved? Did he see her as one of his engines that could be fixed quickly and easily?

She didn't answer. She sensed his impatience, and knew she had to respond soon.
He shook his head again, and got up, as if to leave, but after a short pause, he sat back down again. He took her hand in his. Quickly, she pulled away.

'Come on Clau. I don't get what I did wrong! Please tell me what I'm supposed to have done wrong.' He was facing her again.

'I...I...nothing. You did nothing wrong.' She continued to look away as she said it, not trusting herself to face him. Tears were smarting her eyes. She would not let them fall this time.

She could feel his gaze, waiting for her to go on. She felt paralyzed: she couldn't move and she couldn't talk. She could do what she always does and flow along the river, letting herself be gently pushed by the current, even if the course is wrong for her.

This was one of those crossroad moments. She could feel it but she did not trust her strength. Could she stand her ground?

He reached out again and took her hand. Warm, familiar. This time she did not pull away. Her heart felt heavy.
'I guess I have been stressed lately'.

Lost

'She's off again, and with the child'. Aggie tutted as she peered out the pane of square glass, letting the net curtain fall back into place.
'When will it end?' she sighed, wiping the crumbs on the table carefully into her palm and then flinging them carelessly in the direction of the fire.
'Are you listening to me, Pat? I'm asking you when will we have our daughter back?' She stands to face him, hands on hips.
'Ah for God's sake, why do I bother?' She gathers the cups and plates in a lazy pile and shuffles out to the kitchen.
Pat puts down his paper, sighs wearily and resumes his position before his wife re-enters.
'Pat, will you please listen to me?' Her voice is shrill now, shrill in the same way she laughs: high-pitched, all on the same note, punctuating the silence like gunshots. It hurts his ears.
He gets up, noisily crumples the paper under his arm, and walks out.
'Will you leave it alone, woman?' He says it under his breath, not wanting to hurt her further.
'What's that, Pat?' she calls after him, but he is out the door now, closing it gently behind him.

Half an hour later, he's sitting in Herlihy's contemplating the last of his pint.
'Same again?' the barman sweeps across from the other side, wiping down the counter in an effort to stay busy.
'Ah no, this'll do me now'.
He is alone in the bar, and not at home with drinking in the middle of the day. He's found himelf down here or else Brady's nearly everyday since Gracie's back in the house.His paper's in front of him, but his focus is elsewhere.
Two ladies enter the bar, sitting discreetly in the far corner. He recognises one of them as Cliodhna, Grace's school friend. Though sitting at a distance, he is sure they must see him too, and he can only imagine what they must be saying.
Without finishing his pint, he flips his cap on, and sends a general salute out with his left hand, to include whoever chooses to see it as he pushes open the door, relieved to be out in the open.

Back in the sitting room, he finds Aggie looking forlornly into the fire. If he had given it another half an hour, he thought, she'd be off doing something else.
'Fine and fresh out there', he says.
Nothing but the flames crackling.
'Cup of tea?'he says, leaning against the side of the door.
'Pat, will you please sit down?'
She continues to stare into the fire, her voice low and controlled.
'What is it, Ag?' He sits on the edge of the chair, leaning forward to her.
He sees the liver spots that have started on the side of her face, the faint wobble of skin on her jowel as she shakes her head, the tape that is holding her new glasses together. Seeing his wife like this unsettles him. A tear rolls down her nose, and she turns, quickly flicking it off.
'Come on, Ag. She just needs time. Things will work themselves out.' He wished he could believe the words he spoke so assuredly.
'It's been fourteen months now!' she turned accusingly.
'And five days', he thought, but didn't say it.
Instead, he touched her arm and said,
'These things take time.' He paused for a moment, squeezing her arm. 'Now, you could do with a cup of tea'
As he went into the kitchen, he spotted Billie's pink elephant on its side on the counter, and as he stood it up, it brushed against the boxes of pills. The valium, he could understand, to get through the funeral. But there must have been seven different boxes of tablets here. The elephant's smiling eyes suddenly caught him off-guard. He swallowed hard, and closed his eyes to let the moment pass.
Picking up the kettle, he resolved to sort this out. He could no longer turn a blind eye. Enough is enough.
'Aggie, the kettle's on. I'm going out. I've something to do'.